


wings of privilege

by shiftingslightly



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Jamilton - Freeform, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Tags Are Hard, Winged Thomas Jefferson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28481889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftingslightly/pseuds/shiftingslightly
Summary: In a palace in the sky, high above the poverty of their kingdom, the winged royal family sits in the lap of luxury. Thomas Jefferson, the crown prince, has been taught all his life that he deserves the splendor that he lives in. But one night his brother says something that makes him question everything, and he wants answers.Alexander Hamilton came from a little-known, far-off island, but he has a secret that will power the revolution and quite possibly change the world. His one goal ever since he arrived is to overthrow the monarchy, just like everyone else he works with. That includes the stuck-up, snobby Prince Thomas.When he finally gets the chance, why does he hesitate?
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. you want a revolution, I want a revelation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syran/gifts).



> this fic was inspired by Syran (@syrannight on Tumblr)! thanks for giving me the idea! 
> 
> I know Alex doesn't appear in this chapter but he will soon! i'm really excited for this fic!

The royal family didn’t have guards. 

Well, that was a bit of a stretch. They did have guards, but very few. Why bother? They were above every single one of their subjects. Literally. 

The royal family was born with wings. Large, feathered, honest-to-god  _ wings  _ that unfolded behind their backs and propelled them into the sky. They said it was the gods’ gift, that they were chosen to lead by the higher powers. The people believed them, perhaps not loving them but accepting them as their rulers. Well, they used to love them.

The people had seen no reason to end their monarchy; the Jeffersons were fair and kind and led their kingdom through times of great prosperity and freedom from their palace in the sky. They loved their people, and their people loved them in return. The Jeffersons were good.

Until they weren’t.

The dawn of a new era was evident in the first decree King Peter made, stating that any dissidents of the king would be prosecuted and publicly hanged. Fear spread through the kingdom like a plague, infecting the people and sinking its harsh claws into their chests, reducing their talk to whispers, their vibrant households to mere shells of their former selves. Soldiers took as they pleased, whether lives or property, and crime was abundant. The king, sitting high above on his throne of gold and wings of rich yellow, tinged dark and repulsive by the stain of his greed and tyranny, didn’t raise a hand so long as his taxes were paid.

Prince Thomas was a small child when this happened, when his grandfather died and the strange shadow fell over the people. His mother told him he was being paranoid, that this was how it had always been. Every time the bodies of innocent citizens hung from poles, displayed for all to see like grotesque trophies, he was told they were attempting to hurt the king. Every time, he nodded, little face scrunched in hatred at these people who wanted his father gone, who hated him because of the wings on his back. He loved his father, and his wings, which were bright, vibrant magenta, his favorite color, unfolding from his shoulderblades and pushing him up into the air. Still, he didn’t like the bodies, and he was grateful when his mother came back from her trips to other kingdoms and there were less of them.

Then, when he was approaching eleven, tragedy struck his sheltered, spoiled life in his home in the sky. His mother fell ill and died, dark fuschia feathers fading to grey as she shuddered one last breath and fell silent.

It was the only time he’d ever seen his father cry.

The next day, his father took him into his study. “Listen here,” he told Thomas. “Don’t believe the lies they’ll tell you, that all men are created equal. You will someday have all the power one could ever wish for. Use it as you please, because it is your right and yours alone.” 

With his mother gone, he grew closer to his brother, Lafayette. They’d tell each other stories of what they’d do when they were king, the endless sweets they’d have and the days they’d spend playing in the garden, no one to force them to take a bath or eat anything other than mac and cheese. 

Peter Jefferson got colder by the day, never saying anything to Thomas or Lafayette and seeing them rarely, shut in his study, poring over something or other. Thomas, now nearing 19, barely felt his absence. He hadn’t been there much in the first place.

But then Lafayette seemed to do the same. He never talked to Thomas anymore, and when he did it disturbed Thomas. He talked of going down to the ground someday, of mingling with the dirty people below their castle in the sky, of equality and of democracy. One day, as they had one of their increasingly rare and awkward conversations, Thomas said, “but why? _Our wings make us greater!_ Can’t you see? The world is at our feet! We can do whatever we please! Why would you give that up?” 

He seemed to activate something in Lafayette, who stood angrily, glaring at him, words bursting out like he’d been longing to say them. “Can’t _you_ see?” he yelled. “Can’t you see how the people suffer? How they’re killed for saying what they wish? Father has blinded you to anyone but yourself! There is more to this world than your own happiness and comfort! How can you sleep comfortable in these silken sheets when others lie dying in the cold because of negligence that is happening in your very own home? Your wings are just that- wings! None of this-” he gestured around them at Thomas’s bedroom, adorned with gold and jewels and filled with expensive trinkets whose uses he hardly even remembered- “was earned! All of this was given to you! How do you not see that this is not right? Are you truly that  _ stupide _ ?” Thomas stared at him. 

He was, by all accounts, an intelligent child. He could argue for hours with his professors with the merit of this or that (not that he ever actually had; they usually acquiesced to him, using the deferential “yes, my prince” or “of course, your royal highness” and continuing with the lesson as if nothing had happened) and was knowledgeable in quite a few subjects, but he couldn’t seem to think of a response. His head was spinning. What  _ had  _ he done to be able to enjoy all of this? Was what Lafayette said true? Were the people really suffering while he lay in the lap of luxury? 

The door banged open, and one of the few guards of the palace barged in, stopping short when he saw Thomas. “Erm,” he said. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Prince Lafayette, please come with me.” Thomas saw a hint of fear in his brother’s normally sparkling brown eyes when he turned to him.  _ What are you scared of?  _ he wanted to ask. But then Lafayette was shoved out of the room unceremoniously, and the door was slammed shut again, and Thomas was left to himself, surrounded by anything anyone could have ever wanted. In that moment, he hated all of it.

The day after, they put Lafayette on a plane and he never saw him again. The last thing he’d said to Thomas was “are you that stupid?”, and it rang in his ears constantly. He loathed himself. It was his fault. His fault his brother was gone, his fault people were suffering- 

His father opened the door. “Young man, you cannot stay in there moping. The boy has been dealt with accordingly.” “He’s my brother!” Thomas said, suddenly outraged. “He’s- he’s not some stupid situation to be ‘dealt with accordingly’, he’s my brother and he’s done nothing wrong!” Peter shook his head condescendingly at him. “He’s obviously been feeding you propaganda, Thomas. He’s been trying to brainwash you.” Thomas stared at him. “I’ll see you at dinner.” With that, his father turned and left. 

_ Don’t believe the lies they’ll tell you. _

His father’s voice and Lafayette’s voice echoed in his head.

_ Are you that stupid?  _ **_Don’t believe the lies they’ll tell you._ ** _ Are you that stupid?  _ **_Don’t believe the lies._ ** _ Are you stupid?  _ **_The world is at your feet._ ** _ Stupide.  _ **_They tell you lies._ ** _ Stupide!  _ **_Lies!_ ** _ Are you stupid?  _ **_LIES!_ **

He covered his ears and curled into himself, but the shouting in his mind continued. Lafayette’s words had opened his eyes, shown him his life in an entirely new light. But he could be lying. What he said, what he accused his father of- it went against everything he’d ever known. Every single thing he’d been told since he was born contradicted what Lafayette said. But maybe Lafayette was right, and they’d just been hiding it from him. Maybe he was that stupid. But maybe he was lying. But maybe he was stupid. Maybe it was lies. Maybe he was stupid. Maybe-

He shook his head. It wouldn’t do to get stuck in a spiral.

He had dinner in his room, sitting alone on his bed. 


	2. my name is alexander hamilton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander makes an appearance, along with most of the Rev Squad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very pleased with myself for creating this in two days. (Yes, I know, I tend to procrastinate a lot.) Enjoy 2k words of Hamilton to make up for the utter lack of him in the first chapter. I should have the third out soon. I'm really excited!!

Alexander Hamilton was different. 

He knew it. The proof was in the iridescent, emerald-green wings on his back. 

They said only the royal family had wings, gifted to them by the gods as a sign that they were meant to rule. He thought it was bullshit, honestly. He’d always been skeptical of the existence of “higher powers”, even though everyone on the island he came from believed in a god who lived beyond the sky and worshipped him every day. He liked how these people did the whole god business. For them, the gods interfered whenever they found it necessary, running the world like some sort of simulation game: they set it up and left it to its own devices, checking back occasionally to see what was happening down there. No worship necessary.

When he’d met Washington, the man had said that this was a sign from them, that the Jeffersons in their palace high above their people were no longer meant to rule. Alexander had pointed out that they still had their wings (this he could discern from the infrequent visits King Peter made down his kingdom), which normally would have earned him at least a scowl for talking back, but Washington just smiled bemusedly. He took this as a personal sign that Washington was okay, at least. And he treated him like family, which, he had to admit, was nice.

The island he’d come from was far from here, and they’d only been able to send him by air-travel to this country by pooling their resources to send him away from the poverty of their community. Even so, he’d thought as he walked away from the air-train station, it wasn’t much better here. On the island, there were passable (though severely cracked) asphalt streets, whereas here, the streets were simply areas that didn’t have houses or buildings on them, and were usually dirt. And the people weren’t much better off either. All around him as he walked into the central city towards the college that first day were signs of poverty; beggars sat in the shadows of rickety, tin-roof houses where people were crammed two to a bed, if they even had a bed. The people were silent, speaking to each other in hushed whispers, never stopping in front of or even looking at the soldiers stationed nearly every ten feet. The dust clouds formed by people walking on the roads remained, creating a haze in the air that contributed to the city’s overall image of dirt and oppression. And this was the kingdom’s _central city_ , what had once been the crown jewel of a thriving empire. 

Alexander had been three when the current king took over, but news didn’t come often to a small, isolated island like his, and everyone, including himself, had thought that it was still that thriving empire that they were sending him too. His hopes and dreams had rested on this place, the place where he could make a name for himself, make an impact on the world. To arrive and find that he could have been better off if he’d never even come- it was crushing. Even so, it didn’t fully sink in as he walked through the silent streets until he reached the main square, where the king’s transport touched down when he visited his kingdom.

The bodies of several civilians had been nailed onto large poles, bloodied and maimed and on display for all to see. It was a grisly sight, but no one seemed to stop and give a double take at the sight of what was presumably someone’s child, someone’s friend, someone’s lover. 

He’d felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, turning in surprise to see a man with a shaved head staring at him with eyes that certainly weren’t unfriendly, but weren’t welcoming either. They were just.. there. Neutral. In fact, his entire face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. It made him slightly wary- who would voluntarily hide themselves so thoroughly? The man pushed him forward. He stumbled and turned to snap at him, but stopped short when he saw the person talking to him, a soldier covered in the mustard-yellow armor that terrified the civilians. He snapped his mouth shut, the bodies on the poles at the forefront of his mind. 

They didn’t seem to be on the man’s mind, however, because he dismissed the soldier irritably. “Pardon me, Mr. Burr, sir,” the soldier said, turning back to take up his watchful position again. Suddenly Alexander knew exactly who he was. “You’re Aaron Burr?” he said, incredulous. This was the man who’d graduated early from the Jefferson University- he’d blown through the courses and received his diploma in two years. He was practically Alexander’s idol. Granted, he was only half a year older than him, but even so. 

“Let me offer you some free advice,” Aaron Burr muttered in his ear, looking around. Alexander nodded eagerly, practically vibrating with anticipation. “Talk less.” He whipped his head around to stare at him. “What?” “Smile more,” he continued, still pushing him away from the square and giving a smile to the soldiers around him, who nodded back. “No way I’m smiling at those-” “Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for.” Alexander shook his head, suddenly disgusted. So that’s how he achieved everything he’d achieved- by playing nice with those soldiers, the ones who killed for fun. “You can’t be serious.” Burr ignored him. “What’s your name?” “Alexander. Alexander Hamilton.” “Well, Alexander, you seem like a smart kid. I’d suggest following my advice. Or the soldiers could kill you,” he said nonchalantly, as if it didn’t really matter to him either way. Alexander stared at him. Burr just clapped him on the back, steering him further down the narrow alley. He began to think this might be a murder of some sort as the houses got closer together and the sunlight seemed to disappear. At the end of the alley an old brown tarp was strung between the two houses on either side, covering an entrance of some sort. He expected Burr to take him through there, but just before they reached the tarp he stopped and made a sharp turn to face the building on their right. Pulling back another tarp, flakes of it drifting to the ground like snowflakes, he revealed an entrance to a staircase that descended into darkness. He started forward down it, turning when he realized Alex was still outside. “Come on!” he hissed. Alexander stared at him like he was crazy. “I’m not going down there.” Burr looked like he was barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. Instead, he gave a tight, forced smile and said, “Alright, that’s your choice, kid, but I don’t feel good leaving you and your big mouth out there with the soldiers and no place to sleep.” Alexander huffed. He didn’t want to, but he could see Burr’s logic. “Don’t call me ‘kid’,” he said as he stomped childishly down the stairs, brushing past Burr. He could practically feel Burr’s eye-roll this time. 

At the bottom of the stairs was a black curtain, and he pushed it aside and entered what looked vaguely like a bar. There was a tall table on the right side, and a person behind it serving drinks, as well as several other tables on the left. The only light came from two fluorescent lanterns on each end of the tall table and small tea lights on each individual table. It was a dingy place, but it was comfortable, and the laughter and chatter that reverberated through it was a nice change after the bleak, fear-soaked silence of the kingdom. 

He found himself gravitating towards a table of two particularly loud people. Burr’s hand was on his shoulder again with a warning that they were trouble, but he shook him off. The two men at the table looked up as he approached. “Well hello there,” one of them slurred. Alexander found himself admiring him. He had long, curly brown hair and a dusting of adorable freckles across his face. A bit too soft of a look for him, but he did know beauty when he saw it. 

He went to take a seat when someone bumped into him from behind. For normal people this wouldn’t be an issue, but the thing about wings and the thing about hiding wings was that they didn’t like to be folded up, which was exactly what Alexander had done to them- folded them up and put a jacket over them. This was not a natural position. When the person bumped into him, it pressed the wings further forward, the opposite of where they wanted to be, and it hurt like hell. As if he’d sprained his finger. 

He shouted, lurching forward and sinking to his knees. Pain shot through his shoulders. “Fuck! What the hell?” The girl who’d bumped him looked shocked. “Oh my goodness- I’m so sorry! Are you alright? Did I hit you hard?” “No,” he managed to say through gritted teeth. “I’m- fine.” One of the other guys from the table got up and offered him a hand. “You don’t look fine, man.” “I promise I’m fine.” 

The girl looked at him, his face still scrunched in pain. “I- can I buy you a drink or something?” “I said I’m fine!” he snapped. She recoiled, and he immediately felt bad. She seemed really nice, and she’d just been trying to help. But before he could express that, another, taller girl marched up to him and jabbed her finger at his chest. “Apologize to Eliza.” Alexander, sensing that this was not a person to mess with, said, “I’m really sorry, miss,” to the girl, who smiled kindly. “It’s quite alright.” 

She continued to stand there silently. “So, uh, what is this place?” Alexander asked. “Burr brought me here but I think he disappeared.” Another shorter girl wearing bright yellow jumped in. “It’s the Tavern! A lot of people hate how it is up there-” she gestured to the ceiling of the underground bar- “so someone made this, and now people come!” Alex nodded. “Where are you from? I don’t think I’ve seen you around,” she continued. “Yeah, who’re you?” the larger man from the table chimed in. “Alexander Hamilton,” he said. “Came from Nevis, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it?” The guys shook their heads, but one of the taller girls said, “It’s that island, right? Really far away?” Alex nodded. “Precisely.” The guy from the table with freckles said, “John Laurens, born and raised in Skyrim City.” “Skyrim City?” “You really are a foreigner,” John snorted. “That’s this city. The central city.” “Hercules Mulligan, also from here,” the other guy said. The shorter girl held out her hand. “Peggy Schuyler, nice to meet you.” “I’m Eliza, her sister,” the girl he’d bumped into said. “Angelica Schuyler, also their sister,” the taller one said. They chatted for a bit, Alexander noticing Peggy slipping away. No one else made a big deal about it, though, so he didn’t say anything. 

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” Peggy cut in at some point in their conversation, appearing at her sisters’ side,“but I think we’ve got to go now.” She whispered something in her sisters’ ears and they nodded and left the bar. 

Alexander stared after them, taking a seat at the table. “What’s their deal?” John and Hercules shifted uncomfortably. “Eh, who knows. Anyways, can we buy you a drink?” The abrupt subject change was not unnoticed, and Hercules obviously knew _something,_ but Alex let it go. Free drinks, after all. “Sure.”

Hours later, the bar had cleared out for the most part. Alex, Hercules and John were the only people left- even the bartender had cleared out. Alex sighed tiredly and stretched in his chair. He'd had too many drinks to be healthy, especially since he hadn't eaten much on his way to the city, and he had a smaller frame than most. He wasn't thinking very clearly when he noticed his wings hurt. In his drunken state, he didn’t really think before unzipping his jacket and pulling it off, sighing in relief as he unfolded his wings. “Finally,” he muttered. Then he noticed the silence.

John and Hercules were gaping at him, eyes fixated on his shiny emerald wings. “Dude- no way,” Hercules said. Alex looked down at his wings. “Oh. Oh yeah, I got wings and stuff,” he said. In the back of his mind he registered that this fog on his brain must be because of the alcohol. Hercules stood up, seeming to have sobered enough for him to think clearly. _Lucky,_ Alex thought. He liked to be in charge of his mental faculties, especially now, when he needed them. 

Hercules looked at John. “We gotta get him to Washington.” Alexander barely had time to wonder who Washington was before he felt his mind slipping. The last thing he heard was John, muttering, “lightweight.” He tried to protest, but he was sinking… down… down into the soft blackness. He let go, let it engulf him. He closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. that was something of a cliffhanger BUT the next chapter comes soon! come talk to me on tumblr [@shiftingslightly](https://shiftingslightly.tumblr.com/)! pleasepleasepleasePLEASE leave a comment and let me know here or on tumblr, i thrive on comments and they fuel me and make the chapters come faster!


	3. smells like new money, dresses like fake royalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas makes a decision.

When Alexander woke up, the first thing he had thought was that he needed to get out of wherever he was. He had no idea what the hell Hercules Mulligan and John Laurens intended to do with him. He sat up slowly, blinking away the lingering fogginess. The first thing he noticed as his vision cleared was the silhouette of a man sitting next to his bed, watching him intently. He jumped, immediately scooting backwards and away from him until his back hit the corner wall where his bed was. The man smiled, offering his hand. “George Washington, rebel leader. Nice to meet you.” Alexander eyed him warily. “What happened? Where am I?” he demanded. Despite the nature of his tone, harsh and defensive in a way that would probably at least annoy anyone else, Washington just smiled. “You passed out. You drank too much, and you don’t seem to have been eating well, which couldn’t have helped.” Alex wrapped his wings around his skinny frame, suddenly feeling self-conscious about how small he was. It wasn’t  _ his  _ fault he couldn’t afford food. 

Washington stood up, tossing him a shirt. “You’re still wearing your clothes from last night, you might want to get changed. Hercules sewed some holes for your wings. There’s breakfast in the communal room if you’d like.” 

After he’d had breakfast, he’d gone to Washington’s office (or, well, a small space that served as Washington’s office) and practically attacked him with questions- what did he plan to do with him, what were the rebels doing, did they have a plan, could he fight, if they were going to kill him, what they could offer him if he decided to stay. Washington just smiled again, patience seemingly never-ending, and answered them all methodically and calmly. They wanted him to join them, they were trying to overthrow the king, they were forming a plan but they didn’t have enough people or information or resources, he could probably fight once he was healthy, although the rebels still hadn’t made their presence known, and no they were not going to kill him. As for what they could offer… “Look, Alexander,” Washington had said, “you don’t  _ have  _ to stay here. All we ask is that you keep quiet about us-” “Then why did you bring me here?” Alexander interrupted him. “Why did you trust me?” “Because I think you’ll join.” Alex paused. “Really?” “Well, yes,” Washington said, “you don’t exactly have anywhere else to go and you already hate the monarchy.” Alex sighed. “Just- give me some time to think about it.” Washington nodded. “Alright.”

In the end, of course, he’d stayed, and now he was invaluable to the revolution. Not only did the wings on his back promise a future icon to rally around, a proof that the king was not, in fact, above them, but he was sharp and witty, and he quickly established his place at Washington’s side. He had friends, Eliza and Angelica and Peggy and John and Hercules. Even Burr could be considered an acquaintance of sorts. He was… enjoying himself, if not completely content. He didn’t do “content”. There was always something he had to be working towards, something to throw his full weight behind. And with the rebels, he found a drive, a purpose, and he was wanted, needed even. All in all, he was glad he was where he was at. 

But then, of course, someone had to come and change that. 

~~

Thomas wanted to leave the castle. That much was clear. The problem was, it had seemed like a good idea in theory- all the questions in his head revolved around whether or not the conditions in the kingdom were as bad as Lafayette made them out to be- but when it came to actually doing it, he didn’t have the faintest idea where to start. A different person might have thought it odd that he, as the kingdom’s prince, didn’t know, but the thought didn’t even cross his mind as he hunted around his room for things he might need. Peter was the only king he’d ever known, and as such, the only example he had. 

Eventually, he had a leather messenger bag full of food, a knife, and several books. Packing had been the hard part, it seemed, because now he simply opened his window and jumped, spreading his wings giddily, and he was out. 

He landed in a deserted corner, folded his wings around him, and put on a jacket, walking into the city. On the outskirts, the city seemed to be falling apart, but he figured that things would get better as he walked further in. 

Ten minutes later, nearly at the center of the city, he could see that that was clearly not the case. The buildings were makeshift, crammed together and falling apart, and he felt conspicuous and out-of-place in his shiny, clean clothes and thick new jacket. The people were hushed and subdued, clearly frightened by the soldiers that flanked nearly every corner. He could feel their eyes on him, so obviously at ease with them as he strolled through the city. He was suddenly glad he’d never shown his face to anyone outside the castle. 

It happened quickly and suddenly. One moment he turned a corner into a deserted side-street and the next he was shoved to the ground, a boot on his neck, surrounded by people. These civilians seemed to be better-off than the general public; they looked well fed and their clothes were new and clean. On top of that, they had a knife, which one man pulled out with a metallic  _ shing  _ and shoved in Thomas’s face. “Gimme all your money,” he growled. “I don’t have any,” Thomas said, and it was true. It had completely slipped his mind that he’d have to pay for things. He knew about the concept of money, of course; but it had never occurred to him that without his status as the prince, it applied to him as well.

“I know you’re lying,” the man spat. “Filthy foreigner, comin’ here to show off how rich you are.” His mother’s words rang clear in his head.  _ They want your father dead.  _ “Fuck you.” Thomas muttered. Someone snarled and slammed their fist into his face. “He  _ said _ give us your money!” Thomas twisted, kicking and catching someone right in the stomach, if their groan of pain was any indication. He felt the impact of a boot coming down hard on his face and then the world faded away.

~~

When he woke up, the first thing he was aware of was that he was on a cot. Sitting up to get a better view of his surroundings, he realized he was in a cell of sorts- the room was small and dark, the only light coming from an opening in the door. The walls and floor were bare and seemed to be made of dirt, and it was very cold. 

The door swung open. “Come on,” someone said. “Washington wants to see you. Fair warning, he looks pretty mad, but he’s not mad at you; no one was supposed to be violent with anyone or attack for money and he just finished chewing them off for it.” Thomas nodded mutely, getting up and following him grudgingly. He felt like a very big dog, trailing after this man, who was very obviously smaller than him and yet still maintained a cheerful, friendly air, not the slightest bit intimidated by Thomas’s stature.

The man led them out into a passageway, made of mud just like his cell. There were multiple forks in the halls, and he would definitely have gotten lost if he hadn’t been following someone who knew their way around the place. He wondered where they were. He hadn’t seen anything remotely as big as this must be as he flew down from the palace, and it’d take a whole lot of mud to build it. Perhaps they were underground. 

Laurens led him to a wooden door set in the mud, pulling it open to reveal a small space with a desk, a man sitting behind it, writing something. “General,” Laurens said, the man (he presumed he was the general) looking up as they entered. “Ah! Hello. I’m terribly sorry about what happened,” the general said, chuckling. Thomas continued to look blankly at him. “George Washington,” the general said, walking around his desk to shake Thomas’s hand. “I’m…” He hesitated. He didn’t want to use a fake name, but he was pretty sure “Thomas Jefferson, prince” wouldn’t quite fare well here. “Thomas.” Washington smiled. “Nice to meet you, Thomas. Now, if you don’t have lodging around here, will you be staying with us?” Once again, anyone who’d lived a normal life would have thought it not advisable to stay in a large, unknown compound, but Thomas had lived his entire life in the castle. It made sense to stay here, after all. He didn’t have lodging, so why not? “Uh, sure.” Washington smiled. “Then I suppose I’ll-” he was interrupted as the door flew open and in came someone else. Laurens backed out as the boy slammed a paper onto Washington’s desk, shedding his jacket as he did so. Thomas leaned down to read it, but straightened up again as he felt something brush his back. “Wha-” He cut himself off. The boy had wings.  _ Wings.  _ Honest-to-god, iridescent, emerald-green wings. “Ah, yes. Hamilton is not a royal,” Washington explained in response to Thomas’s gaping. “He simply has wings. We don’t know why.” “Quit your gaping,” Hamilton snapped. Thomas shut his mouth, mind reeling.

If this Hamilton kid had wings- what did that  _ mean _ ? Was he truly not special at all? Was his father special? If he had wings- everything,  _ everything,  _ every single thing he’d been told was a lie. Everything. The bodies. His father’s wrath. His own right to the luxuries he lived with. Was he truly worthy of anything? When had he ever done something to earn what he had?

Hamilton’s shouting snapped him out of his spiral. “Sir, we have to make our move now! The Administer is growing harsher and harsher by the day. What do we have to gain from waiting? If we rise up now, we have a decent chance of getting to the people before they can’t say anything for fear of their lives!” “Wait,” Thomas said, drawing the attention of the two others in the room. “Why the hell do you want to ‘rise up’?” Hamilton looked at him like he was stupid. “Do you have  _ eyes _ ? Can you not see the state we’re living in? We can barely talk without drawing a bullet into our skulls! Meanwhile the royals sit in their little palace in the sky all comfy and warm as we  _ starve  _ in the streets!” Thomas frowned. “The royals earned their place when they secured the kingdom’s independence. What do you have to gain from rebellion except death?” Hamilton snorts. “That was nearly a hundred years ago. Times change. We’re stronger than you think. We can handle-” Thomas cut him off, nearly yelling, “The king’s armies will kill you where you stand and decimate the entire kingdom if they have to. They will hunt you down and kill every single one of you, and what happens after? Nothing! Nothing happens. Lives are lost for no reason and the king’s grip tightens.” Hamilton takes a step towards him, furious. “Lives are already lost for no reason! The king’s grip is already tightening! We have nothing to lose! The only people who lose anything in the downfall of the monarchy are the monarchs. Can’t you see? Are you truly that stupid?”  _ There it is again,  _ Thomas thought drily. ‘Open your eyes,’ they said. ‘Think,’ they said. They couldn’t seem to see that he’d been taught all his life to keep his eyes squeezed shut and listen blindly, ever since he’d turned away from the bodies in the square and ran to his mother for comfort; ever since his father told him  _ they will tell you lies _ . How could he ‘open his eyes’ when no one showed him how? 

Hamilton turned to Washington. “Get him out of here. He’s clearly a monarchist.” He spat the word with so much disgust that it was very clear what he thought of the royals.  _ Oh, the irony, _ Thomas thought.  _ If only you knew.  _ Washington sighed. “No, Alexander, Thomas is staying.” “But-” Washington silenced him with a stare that Alexander clearly knew all too well. He snapped his mouth shut, turning to go with a quiet “yes sir”. 

Laurens showed him around, seemingly oblivious to the shouting match Thomas and Alex had had. He did seem to pick up that something had gone wrong and offered his condolences, saying, “Sorry about that, Alex can get a little… opinionated sometimes, but he means well.” Thomas snorted, highly doubting that. Laurens just shook his head. “Look, I’m his best friend and even I can see he goes overboard sometimes. But you’re going to have to get used to it.”

“Just- the things he  _ says,  _ it’s like he wants people to die! It’s ridiculous!” Laurens paused, turning around and smiling softly at him. “You really are a sheltered foreigner, aren’t you?” “I-” “I know how you feel,” he said. “Sure ya do,” Thomas responded drily. He just wanted to go have some lunch at this point. “I’m serious!” Laurens said earnestly. “My dad’s a noble and everything. He told me this was right. But it’s so clear once you take a step back! The royals sit in their palace, rich beyond imagination, and why? What did they do to deserve it? All you have to do is open your eyes and see.” And there it was again. Why didn’t they understand? Everyone just told him to look, but no one ever showed him how.

He shook his head. “See you around, Laurens,” he said, turning and walking back towards the mess hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bring this update to you from my iPad! I know I haven’t updated in more than a week, I’m sorry, I just haven’t been motivated and school started, meaning a sharp downswing in my mental health and, subsequently, less writing. I might start an update schedule if I end up not updating for over a week again. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please please please please please leave a comment, they fuel me. Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~Makeshift

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! I don't really have an updating schedule but I do plan to continue this. Pleeeeeeeease leave a comment?


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